Don't Roll Those Bloodshot Eyes At Me
by Pretty Persistent
Summary: When Puck and Holly cut class, they spend those moments together. But moments are always fleeting.


It's noon.

She should be at her prep period, and he should be in the cafeteria.

But she isn't.

She shouldn't be out doing donuts, in an abandoned field, with him.

But she is.

And she definitely shouldn't be seeing her student.

But it's not like she's calling him her boyfriend.

"Puck! Puck, you're gonna get us killed!" she shouts out, through fits of laughter.

He glances at her, raising his eyebrows, and whips the steering wheel, sharply turning the car into their best circle, yet. "What's life without a little risk?"

She chuckles, head spinning, as she cocks it sideways at him. "I thought you'd never ask."

His eyes roll. "You're so lame, old lady."

"Shut it, kid," she says, smirking, as she yanks the steering wheel, throwing the car in some random direction. She revels, when he slams on the breaks in a startled manner. She mocks a gasp and pinches his cheek. "Ooh, did I scare the great Puckzilla?"

He shrugs her hand away, but she can already see the grin that has crept on his face.

They never offend each other, because they both have the same attitude, after all.

"You should be in class," she says, even though she's doing nothing to enforce it, as she slowly inclines her face towards his.

"Educate me, Ms. Holliday…" he whispers, his lips brushing hers, as their close proximity makes her hazy.

She _is _the sex ed teacher, after all.

She grabs the sides of his face, kissing him with hunger. He pulls her into the back seat. She straddles him, pushing him against it.

It's hard and fast. She shifts her skirt up, and her stockings down, barely getting him out of his pants before she sinks herself down onto him.

They shout each other's name, biting and digging nails, as they reach their peak together.

She sighs, rolling off of him, her back hitting the seat with a thud.

"Light me up," she says, holding out her hand and rolling her head over to smile at him.

"I'm beginning to think you're just using me for my weed…" he says, quietly, leaning his head toward hers.

She smirks. She was pretty impressed, when he let her in on his little scam. It's not like she cared. Sandy Ryerson has had it out for her, since she got the sex ed class, over him.

"Hey, I can get weed any time I want," she says, shrugging apathetically. "You, however," She taps his nose. "seem to be using me for my body. And that," she scans her arms down her own frame. "can't be found just anywhere."

He sighs, looking defeated, and leans his head against her chest. "Then stop wearing these damn turtlenecks and scarves…"

Laughing, she pulls the sweater over her head, and leans onto him, pressing her breasts up against his taut chest. "There. Now, quit your whining…"

"You hush," he teases, sticking a joint in her mouth, while he pulls out a lighter.

They always smoked, when they played hooky. Originally, he had joked with her, saying he wanted to get her so stoned out of her mind, that she couldn't teach class, properly. But she always smoked twice as much, and laughed whenever she found him sitting against the lockers, dazed and wrist high in a bag of cheetos.

She takes a puff, letting the smoke cloud the air, and the sweet effect of the herbs cloud her mind. She's been thinking about getting her boyfriend to smoke with her, because it would sure as hell make that relationship a whole lot less stressful.

But that's why she has this, as illegal and morally wrong as it might be. Still, it's carefree and fun, and exactly what she's all about—everything she needs, in order to stay sane, if she's going to try this whole relationship thing.

She said she'd try, but that doesn't mean she'll succeed.

She's pretty sure he's still fucking his ex-wife, anyway.

She doesn't dwell on it, glancing up at the man she's with now, instead, leaning against his chest, as they pass the joint back and forth. Because she loves these fleeting moments, so much more.

Because no matter what he's getting her off on, she never has to stay in one mindset, for too long.

The only time she connects to someone just as distant as herself is when she's looking into his eyes, and that fact occurs to her.

The fact that he allows her to be who she's always been, as hindering and enabling as it might be.

Because that's who he is, too.

But even that moment passes, in an instant, as she flicks the stub of their joint out the window and pulls her shirt back on.

Moments come and go, as they should.

When they're done, they put visine in each other's eyes, which might be the most intimate moment they share, even if the clear, tiny drops seem to wipe away every one of their forbidden acts.


End file.
